


Out of Darkness

by Jaxrond



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2P, 2P America and Canada have foul mouths, 2P England has a swear jar, 2P France smokes, 2P Prussia included because Prussia, Are 2P really canon?, Crazy Uncle's fault, Curse Breaking, Curses, Ends up being kinda cliche, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gets kinda funny sometimes, Horror, Inspired by a FNAF based 2P fic, Language, Magic, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of relationship violence, OC/Canon, Original character with a disability, Past Violence, Possible smut, Some themes from FNAF, Threats of Violence, True Love's Kiss, automatons, eventual lime, first person POV, just a bit, rated for a reason
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 19:58:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7984267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaxrond/pseuds/Jaxrond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Victoria and her cousins are offered jobs at their uncle's recently acquired pizzeria, they immediately accept. The pay is spectacular, the job relatively easy, and the hours decent for a summer job between college semesters. With the three of them working together, they can even compensate for when Aisling forgets her hearing aids. What none of them ever expected, though, was for a cursed group of the second personas of personified countries to be thrown into the mix with them. Matters only seem to get worse when Uncle Sean hardly seems bothered by the danger his nieces find themselves in, even hiring another nightshift employee, convinced that they can break the curse on the automatons of his pizzeria.<br/>With some of the automatons pursuing them in hopes of breaking the curse with the old "true love's first kiss" standby, and others attempting to do them harm, every night is full of heart-pounding games of deadly hide-and-seek. Why don't they quit and run? Let it suffice to say that even leaving the pizzeria would not separate them from their fates. The cursed automatons of the pizzeria do not give up so easily. It would be far better to face them head on than to ever give them the chance to strike at your back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Opening Act

When Uncle Sean O’Leary sent out word that he had purchased, and refurbished, the old entertainment pizzeria, no one in the family was surprised. In order to understand why, you have to know some things about Uncle Sean. He’s the youngest of a group of three brothers and one sister, adopted five years after the next youngest due to circumstances unknown. He’s never married and has no children. I fact, most of us aren’t even sure he has sexual or romantic interests. I’ve never heard of him ever having a partner of any sort, though, he has complimented pretty women before in my presence. He’s definitely the oddest of the family, the one that everyone talks about with a fond little smile when they tell stories about him. He started college back in his youth and only made it part way through before deciding that college really was a ridiculous thing and deciding his time was better spent travelling. No one’s really sure where he got the money to travel. I mean, it’s not like our family has ever struggled, and Grandma and Grandpa O’Leary have always been well-to-do, even when they were still in Ireland. But they weren’t footing the bill when he suddenly ended up in the homeland to visit our distant relatives. After spending a good amount of time there, he’d returned with a rather hefty sum of money. Since then, he’d made a number of attempts to start businesses, some of which were more successful than others, though they all eventually shut down. He was a jack of all trades, master of none. Though, to my cousins and I, that hardly mattered. To us, Uncle Sean was the one who always brought us odd, extravagant gifts and took us on wild adventures to wherever struck his fancy. Recently, he took our eldest cousin, Grace, back to Ireland with him. Sometimes, he even gives us things he swears up and down have magical properties. Though he’s an adult, he promises that his belief in magic remains strong.

So, it isn’t surprising that he bought out the pizzeria. It was to be his latest business venture. What was surprising, though only mildly so, was that the word he sent included job offers for myself, Grace, and our younger cousin, Aisling. He expressed that he would like us to take the night shift at the establishment, the after-hours in which the cleaning was to take place. He said that, while he could have hired anyone, he trusted us specifically. And he offered us a rather large hourly wage for the task. A ridiculously large wage. I was still living with my parents during the summers between college semesters and the opportunity was too good to pass up. Even if it was a night shift, it was still part time, only six hours a night. Plenty of time to sleep. It would only be for the summer and over holidays, when Aisling and I are off school. And with my employer being a relative I’d known all my life, there wouldn’t ever be any issues getting time off if anything came up. Plus, Uncle Sean had said that the job was fairly easy. We would clean up from the previous day and ensure that everything was set up for the incoming workers the next morning, as well as make sure that no one attempted to break in for whatever odd reason they may have. The day-shift workers had carried over from the previous management. All but the night shift, who had vacated as soon as it was time for contract renewal. Odd, but not seriously so. Uncle Sean had said that the previous contracts had been for up to a year after the original week trial was finished and that he suspected the reason they had left was because of the ridiculousness of the hours. Or perhaps because they were spooked. After all, one of them had found the body of the previous owner.

I can still remember the news story. The previous owner, a corpulent, balding man, had been found stabbed to death at his desk, seemingly after he had come in that night to sort out some paperwork. He had arrived between closing at nine pm and when nightshift began at midnight, having been at some sort of business meeting all day. When the nightshift worker had arrived to work, they had left him alone, knowing that he liked to work in peace. However, after a number of hours of silence from the office, they had become worried and chosen to check on him. The scene that met them had resulted in an immediate phone call to the police, a thorough search of the area, and a yet-uncaught killer. There were no signs of a break-in, no trails, no fingerprints, nothing. It was like a ghost had up and stabbed him before disappearing.

The restaurant had gone up for sale directly after the police had cleared it, only a few weeks after the murder. Uncle Sean had pounced on it and immediately remodeled the place. He refused to tell us what upgrades or changes he’d made, but, he promised that we would love the work environment. Normally, I’d be a bit wary about working in a place where someone had been violently murdered, but, I trust Uncle Sean, and he said it was perfectly safe.

And that’s why I am currently walking into a dark building at 11:45 pm wearing my t-shirt and yoga pants. Uncle Sean had told us explicitly not to wear uniforms since we weren’t working customer service and he said he wanted us to be comfortable. When I walk in, I expect the place to smell old and musty. I’ve been here a few times before for events and I remember it being really tacky, looking and smelling like it was still back in the 80’s. But, due to Uncle Sean’s remodeling, it smells, like any new building does, of sawdust, paint, metal, and hastily put-up air-fresheners. It’s a nice sort of surprise. I make my way down the short entrance hall and into the main dining room. I actually stop when I step inside and flip the light switch, my mouth almost falling open.

Uncle Sean wasn’t kidding when he said he had completely redone the place. The main room, previously a dark, smoky space with a gloomy air, is hardly recognizable. The lighting, for one, is warm and yellow rather than sparse and white, providing plenty of illumination to take in the scene. What were once garishly painted walls are now stylishly colored with cool blues and neutral crèmes. It must have taken a lot of paint too. I had noticed when I was walking in that the building looked much bigger from the outside, now I know why. The main room has tripled in size. The ceiling is at least two stories high in contrast to the mere nine feet it had been before. The room itself is as large as any high school gymnasium I’ve ever been in. One section has been cordoned off for dining and set with brand new comfortable chairs and tables both large and small. The funfetti carpet has been torn up and replaced with light hardwood, giving it a much homier feel than the cheesy décor from before. The tables, wood covered in pale clothes and surrounded by red cushioned chairs, are set up to resemble a classic Italian restaurant. Even from the door, I can spot the newly printed menus laying at each place. The rest has been carpeted and left open. Though, the small curtained stage directly across from where I stand and the jukebox off to the side suggests that it is primarily a place for people to dance, play, mingle, and whatever else they may see fit to use the space for. Leave it to Uncle Sean to manage to make this place perfect for parties and gatherings of all sorts, whether it be a toddler’s birthday party or a classier gathering for adults. Two bathroom doors stand in as central a location as possible along the wall.

Directly across from the dining area is a wall with a large, open doorway. A short hall links another room to this one. I hear a myriad of beeps and music coming from within and, upon further exploration, find an arcade. The contents of which are still flashing and making noise even after hours. Everything from the old Pacman to the more modern “Dance Dance Revolution” stand in rows on new black carpet, ready to play. He really has outdone himself. Heck, I would want to have _my_ birthday here and I’m legally an adult.

Unable to keep the smile from my face, I walk back into the main room. Leading off the dining area is a windowed pair of wooden swinging doors marked “Employees Only”. Though I’m reluctant to leave the main room, I’m eager to see what’s been done with the rest of the place. I push through and turn on the light. My eyes are met with a long hall. One door leads into the kitchen, which seems to have been outfitted with everything a kitchen could possible ever need in order to successfully feed large numbers of people. Further down the hall are a set of four rooms. One is the manager’s office, which is clean and organized in classic Uncle Sean style. Which is to say, it’s utterly in chaos. The next is the break room, complete with vending machines, couches, a microwave, a refrigerator, and a restroom. Third is another office for security. A large television hangs in the corner, camera feeds from all over the building running in small boxes across its screen. A computer sits on the desk, a phone beside it. On the wall are a series of small hooks for coats, purses, and the like. Across the hall from the breakroom is the supply closet, which is stocked full of enough cleaning supplies to survive the apocalypse. I immediately find myself wondering if any of this stuff has an expiration date because, if it does, there’s no way we’ll ever get through it all in time. Did he buy someone out of their bulk cleaning supplies or something? Upon further checking, I also find a trio of giant vacuums in the back. Like, it will definitely take two hands to push those things type of giant. I’ve never before seen such large vacuum cleaners in my life.

I leave my things on a hook in the security office and decide to go back to the main room to wait on the others. I think I’ve seen most of the place. I haven’t been backstage. Or into the absolutely huge freezer area off the kitchen. But, I’m actually not all that interested in seeing that, really. As I head back out into the dining area, I hear the front door open again and the jingling of keys in the lock. A moment later a ‘hello?’ drifts from the hall. I move a bit faster, almost reaching the entrance when the speaker emerges from the hall. I immediately smile, all-too happy with the face I see.

Grace O’Leary, the eldest of the group of cousins, steps into the room, carrying a large canvas bag over one shoulder and a purse over the other. I’ve always thought Grace is the prettiest of us. She’s tall and soft, with feminine curves in all the right places. Her eyes are the bright O’Leary green and her hair a lovely strawberry blonde that hangs in loose ringlets. She’s only twenty-three and already has a few laugh lines. And she’s unbelievably nice with a maternal streak a mile wide. Grace is the one to go to for a hug in a tough time or who you ask for an opinion on what to wear. Despite her niceness, she’s also a bit sarcastic from time to time and isn’t afraid to set someone straight when they need it. I’ve only seen that side of her a couple of times, since she doesn’t really like letting it out.

Her eyes light up when she sees me. With me being in college and her working part-time at her mom’s bakery during the day we hardly ever get to see each other regularly. The next thing I know, I’m being pulled into a bear hug of epic proportions.

“Vikki! I’m so happy to see you!”

I hug her back as best I can around that giant canvas bag she’s got. She smells like strawberries and I can feel that her hair’s still damp where it touches my face. I’m guessing she got off work at the bakery and got some sleep before showering and coming here.

“It’s good to see you too, Grace. I missed you.”

Grace pulls back, her hands trailing down to hold mine. She gives me that sweet smile that’s always made the guys’ heads turn. Though, she’s usually oblivious to it.

“I missed you too! It’s been so long!” her eyes flicker over me, “You look so cute!”

I force a smile. That’s what everyone says. I’m never pretty, just cute. I once had a crush on a guy I was friends with in high school. When my other friends and I showed up to dances decked out in our dresses, I’d wait for him to tell me I was pretty like he did the others, even in a joking way. He never did. I was always ‘so freaking adorable in that cute little dress’. Pretty much killed my self-esteem. I’ve been ‘cute’ for as long as remember, like some sort of overgrown five-year-old. I don’t have the heart to tell her, or my other relatives for that matter, that I really hate being called that.

“Thanks. You look nice too.”

She laughs, blushing slightly.

“That’s sweet of you, Vikki. Though, I’ve put on some weight since the last time I saw you,” she pats her belly with one hand.

She’s right. She’s a little bit chubbier. Though, if anything, it just makes her look more loveable than before. Like, on top of being the nicest and most huggable person you’ll ever meet, she’s soft enough for cuddles. She’s tall enough that it works.

“You look fine, don’t worry! I bet Harry thinks so too.”

Her smile drops just slightly at the mention of her boyfriend’s name. Before I can ask, though, the front door opens again. A moment later, a shrill series of whistles tells us that the last member of our little trio has arrived. And that she’s forgotten her hearing aids again. If she had them, she would have spoken.

Aisling struts into the room looking like she just stepped off the pages of a teen magazine, dressed in well-fitted jeans and a “Flogging Molly” shirt. Her red curls are pulled back from her pale face, revealing it fully. Aisling is the one who looks the most stereotypically Irish. Red hair, green eyes, freckles spattered across her face, and a mischievous little smile that looks like it came right off a meddlesome little Leprechaun. She waves enthusiastically as she walks towards us. She’s also so tall and thin that I want to go cry in a corner.

Grace turns to the newcomer, already smiling like the sun again.

“Aisling! How are you?”

Aisling’s long, pale fingers fly through the signs for _“Fine, how are you?”_

Yep. She forgot her hearing aids.

The girl’s a genius, working towards a degree in mechanical engineering. She can fly through math and science courses like a pro. She’s not one you want to argue with because she can flay just about anyone with words and has enough snark to possibly be related to Alan Rickman. But, she’s also very hard of hearing. It’s a condition she’s had since birth. It’s not that she can’t hear, she just needs aids to hear effectively. Hearing aids that she has a bad habit of leaving next to her bed. Which leaves us to communicate in sign language. Grace and I both can, since the three of us are so close in age, but it’s just kind of annoying since she has tools to hear properly and doesn’t use them.

I point to my ear and cock a brow, our personal sign for ‘where the heck are your aids?’. She looks a bit sheepish, giving me that leprechaun grin and splaying her hands in a ‘sorry’ gesture.

_“I was so excited about the new job that I forgot them.”_

I sigh. Of course she was. She gets excited about a lot of things. Which in turn causes her to forget her aids a lot of the time. My hand vaguely flickers through the sign for ‘idiot’. She laughs, knowing I don’t mean it.

By the time more hugs are exchanged, during which I am again reminded of how short I am next to the red haired Barbie-doll that is my cousin, and proper greetings are given, it’s 12:04. Grace flies into a tizzy as soon as she checks her watch. She’s that annoyingly perfect person who wants to be early to everything. The idea of late threatens to give her a stroke. Even though she was only late because we were catching up.

“It’s four after and we haven’t even started! It’s our first night on the job! We’re terrible workers!” she looks torn between bustling off to whatever destination she has in mind and ensuring that we’re getting settled in as well. She keeps doing this odd little shifting thing from one foot to another. She peeks into her canvas bag, as though it will give her direction on what to do.

Aisling frowns at her and begins signing.

_“What’s the big deal? It’s not like we clock in.”_

That is true. Uncle Sean had told us to simply write down our hours. Which showed just how much he trusted us. I shrug in agreement.

“She’s right. How about you drop your stuff off and look around. I doubt there’ll be much to clean tonight. I mean, the place just reopened. There won’t even be people here until tomorrow.”

Aisling nods, having read my lips. Even though she’s had her hearing aids for a number of years, she forgets them so often that she’s gotten really good at reading lips. She begins to sign again.

_“Uncle Sean asked me to take a look at some stuff tonight since there isn’t much cleaning. Old automatons or something? I didn’t even know this place had anything like that.”_

Grace seems to have calmed down. She gives a small nod, her entire body relaxing.

“I vaguely remember some performing automatons here back in the day. Though, they were taken down when I was little,” she glances towards the kitchen, “I’ll drop my things off and we’ll come help you. I’ve got a batch to bake for the grand opening tomorrow, but, machines like that are sure to be heavy. We can help you move them.”

I nod once when Aisling looks at me questioningly. She grins and immediately skips off, looking cheerful. Though, she’s cheerful as long as she gets to tinker. Letting her have at something as advanced as these automatons Uncle Sean’s mentioned? It’s like Christmas in May. With a sigh, I follow her. Grace goes off to put her things away.

Aisling vaults onto the wooden stage, landing with a dull thump. She stands there for a moment, looking about. Then she signs “ _Where_?”

I shake my head to signal that I don’t know. I didn’t even know there were automatons in the restaurant. She frowns at me, looking almost disgusted with my ignorance. Then, she pauses to think, bringing her finger to her chin and tapping it lightly. After a moment, I can almost see the lightbulb go off above her head. She darts off to one side of the stage and pushes the curtain back to find the pulley cord to open it. After a brief bit of struggling and a grunt, she manages to get the curtain going. I watch as the two red walls slide apart, folding in on themselves and revealing what’s behind, rattling on their new tracks. I almost wish that she hadn’t opened it when I see what’s there.

To say I’m creeped out would be an understatement. The automatons are indeed present, in some sort of power down. When they had said ‘performing automatons’ I had pictured that dancing thing at Chuck-E-Cheese’s, which are terrifying but still somehow kid friendly, or a Mickey Mouse sort of thing. Not the people that are on stage. They’re utterly still, heads hanging against their chests, standing in a row of nine, all male, all life-sized. The tallest is quite a bit over six feet and the smallest a bit taller than me. I feel a bit sick, actually. They look so utterly real. I can’t help the way my eyes widen as I take in the soft skin, the shiny hair, and the comfortable-looking clothes. They don’t look like they’re powered down robots. They look like they’re people who have just fallen asleep standing there. A breeze from the air-conditioning ruffles their disturbingly realistic hair.

Aisling darts out from where she was pulling the cord. As soon as she sees them, her expression changes. I can tell she’s torn between excitement and being utterly disturbed by the sight. She pauses a few feet from the nearest one, rocking up onto the balls of her feet, as if debating whether or not to run away rather than towards them. After a moment, she cautiously creeps forward, expression curious, and pokes at it. The one she’s chosen is the one on the end, the figure of a slim man with bedraggled blonde hair pulled back into a haphazard ponytail. I can see the scruff on his chin even where it’s tucked against his purple shirt. He doesn’t move in the slightest when Aisling touches him. I feel myself relax before I even realize that I’d tensed. He looks so lifelike, I half expected him to tell her to screw off and let him sleep.

Apparently, Aisling thought the same thing. She hovers beside him, staring at him with wide eyes. Then, she pokes him again. When nothing happens, she begins to check him out with more confidence, poking and prodding here and there. She runs a strand of his hair through her fingers before pinching lightly at his cheek. Then, she pats his belly experimentally. The surprised expression on her face makes me almost anxious about what she’s discovered. She looks up and quickly signs to me.

_“They look and feel so lifelike, but there’s definitely metal under that skin.”_

I frown at that. Weird.

Aisling signs again.

_“Come see!”_

I feel a look of panic cross my face. Whether they’re truly mechanical or not, something about the nine figures on stage gives me the heebie-jeebies like you wouldn’t believe. I let my eyes slide over them again, taking them all in. Beside the one Aisling’s poking at is another blonde, though he’s more of a strawberry blonde, wearing a pink shirt and purple vest. Continuing on down the line is what looks like a pair of hoodlums. One wears a bomber jacket, white shirt, and jeans, with a pair of sunglasses perched in his auburn hair. The other wears a half-buttoned red flannel shirt over a white tanktop and jeans. His sunglasses are on his face, which is half-hidden by the blonde bangs falling from his ponytail. The next is the tallest. He’s at least six and a half feet tall and is wearing a black and red coat. His brown hair is short and does nothing to cover his face. Beside him is the shortest, whose appearance absolutely screams ‘Chinese Drug Dealer’, from his odd little cap, to his rumpled clothes, to the bags under his eyes. Then there’s the one who, if I had to guess, I’d say is supposed to be Japanese. At least, he’s wearing an old Imperial uniform. Which I can only identify because of my obscene number of hours logged studying random history facts. At his side is a slightly taller man with brownish hair and a cute face. He’s even got a little hat that matches his brown uniform. As cute as he is, though, he’s the one who sends the biggest shiver down my spine. Lastly, there’s a big, buff blonde guy who looks like the brother of Arnold Schwarzenegger. He’s freaking ripped, and the scar on his left cheek looks like it came from a fight.

They’re terrifying. The type of guys who, when you see them coming down the street, you cross to avoid. And they’re supposed to be kid friendly entertainers? The first one looks more like a drunk bum than anything. And the last one doesn’t exactly say ‘children love me, I give wonderful cuddles’. Those in between…hoodlums and possibly a drug dealer. Except for the one in pink. He at least looks like he might be lovable. Maybe. Or just scarily flamboyant. At least he pulls of those colors well. That’s not something you can say for a lot of people. I still wouldn’t cuddle him.

I look back to Aisling. She cocks a brow at me and waves me up towards the stage. After another long pause, I drag myself to the edge and then pull myself up. Unfortunately my short stature and general chubbiness makes my ascent a lot less graceful than Aisling’s. She and Grace, and my older brother, John, swear up and down that I’m not as fat as I think I am, but, they’re biased. I personally believe I am reminiscent of a raccoon. Really. I’m small, chubby, brown haired, and have dark circles around my eyes despite getting regular amounts of sleep. Plus, I like wearing darker colors. If I had a Patronus, it would be a raccoon. Heck, my spirit animal is probably a raccoon. Minus the kleptomania and tendency to eat weird things.

Brushing myself off, I stand and look up. I’m face to face, sort of, with the super tall one. I have to look straight up at him, since he’s well over a foot taller than me. When I do look straight up, I see that he’s a decent-looking guy with dark shadows beneath his eyes. His brows are furrowed, almost like he’s not sleeping well.

I stop myself. He’s not sleeping at all. He’s a robot. He’s powered down.

_Damn. These things are seriously freaking creepy._

I edge away from him and quickly run to Aisling’s side. She’s wandered away from the automatons, apparently done poking at them, and is rummaging through a series of boxes lined up against the wall in the right wing of the stage. I join her and find that she’s looking through a series of cords. She glances back at the line of automatons, frowning. Then, she looks at the box again. After a moment, her face lights up in an ‘aha!’ moment and she pulls out a long cord with an oddly shaped end. Grinning, she scurries to the nearest plug and sticks the pronged end into the correct slot. Then, she runs back onto the stage. I follow her slowly, not really sure what she’s doing.

As it turns out, there’s a hidden hole in the middle of this back part of the stage. Aisling finds the metal cover and flips it up before plugging the oddly shaped end of the cord into the correct slot. Sitting back on her heels, she looks up at me, smiling. Seeing my slightly confused frown, she points to the automatons’ feet. I look over and see that each of them are standing on a small metal plate. Huh. I hadn’t even noticed before. Now that the cord’s been applied, the slim cracks between the plates and the surrounding stage begin to glow white. I look back to Aisling, not quite understanding. She frowns for a moment, apparently, trying to figure out how to sign what she wants to say, before shrugging and speaking.

“Charging.”

“Ah. I see.”

She struggles with speaking for extended periods of time without her aids, due to not being able to hear her own inflection and such, but a few words aren’t really an issue for her.

I glance back at the ‘charging stations’, that the automaton’s stand on. Then, I notice a tenth station next to the big buff guy’s. I poke Aisling and then point to it. When she frowns at the empty, glowing spot, I know she’s wondering the same thing I am: Where’s number ten?

She stands and looks around, as though the missing automaton will suddenly run out from backstage like “whoops, sorry, I forgot where I was supposed to be!”. Then, when she doesn’t see it, she looks back at me a shrugs.

 _“I’ll find it,”_ she signs, _“If I can’t, Uncle Sean will probably know. He was the one who told me to plug them in and where the cords were.”_

Of course, she doesn’t actually sign all of this so clearly. It’s more like “I. Find. If. Can’t. Tell. Uncle Sean.” and so on. But, after signing with her since we were kids, I’ve picked up on enough to fill in the proper words.

I nod in understanding. It’s weird that Uncle Sean didn’t just plug them in himself. Maybe they get plugged in every night and use their charge during the day? Who knows. They were handed down with the rest of the place.

“Oh!”

Aisling and I are a bit startled by Grace’s sudden appearance. I think we’d both almost forgotten she was there, we’d been so focused on the automatons.

“They’re, uh…very realistic…”

I move around the line to peek out from behind the bum-looking one.

“Yeah. They freaked us out too.”

Is it just me or did he twitch when I said that?

She gives a faint nod, still watching them like they’ll move at any time. I’m still not sure the one next to me didn’t.

“These are the performance automatons?” she’s still eyeing them as she climbs onto the stage, “They don’t look very kid-friendly…”

She walks up to the one in the bomber jacket and looks him up and down. I know what she’s thinking by the look on her face. Kid-friendly? Not so much. Will burn your house down just for kicks or possibly threaten your boyfriend away just so he can perv on you? Probably. That’s the kind of guy this automaton looks like. What exactly does he perform for children? How to live the ‘thug lyfe’?

Aisling has already begun her search for the missing automaton. I can hear her poking around in one of the wings. I can’t help but wonder if that’s really a good idea. Though, very little scares Aisling. Grace walks down the line and then back, checking out the rest of the creepy crew on stage. She pauses in front of the one in pink and absently fixes his bowtie and straightens his vest.

“There…quite dapper,” she mutters, coming to stand next to me.

I stare at her for a moment, a little perturbed by her concern over his appearance. When she doesn’t meet my eye, I sigh softly.

“Well, I don’t think Aisling needs our help here. I guess you can get started in the kitchen and I can get cleaning?”

Grace tears her eyes away from the automatons and looks down at me, smiling.

“That sounds wonderful. If you need any help, let me know. I just have to make the cakes and get them in. The hard part comes later, so, I shouldn’t be long.”

I feel my brows furrow.

“Hard part?” what could be so hard about a cake?

“Decorating,” her smiles widen, “It’s my favorite part! Would you like to help?”

Decorating anything has never been my idea of fun. I’m more of a ‘find a quiet corner with a book’ kind of person. I don’t really go to parties, outside of those the family holds, or really host parties. Cake decorating has always been Grace’s thing. But, she looks so happy with the idea, and we haven’t spent time together in so long, that I find myself nodding.

“Um, sure. I suck at it, but…”

She grabs me in another hug.

“Nonsense! You don’t suck at anything! You just haven’t practiced it yet!”

I stand there awkwardly, not really sure what to do.

“Uh, okay…” is my very intelligent response.

She lets go and flits off like some kind of fairy princess off to frolic in her little cake kingdom. I can’t help but frown a bit as she dances off across the dining area.

“I’ll teach you, don’t worry!” she calls as she disappears into the ‘Employees Only’ hall.

And, just like that, I’m left alone with nine creepy automatons on a stage. I stand there for a moment before slowly looking over at the line. I have the weirdest feeling that they’re monitoring me right now. Like they heard everything that Grace and I said.

“…I knew Uncle Sean was weird…but this is a new high,” I murmur to myself after a moment, “And he needs a new definition of ‘audience-friendly’.”

I clamber down off the stage and turn my attention to the jukebox, just to keep my eyes off the automatons. It looks like the coin insertion part’s been closed off. I’m guessing it’s rigged, then, so that the songs play for free. After a bit of dinking around with it, I figure out how to turn the machine on. Sure enough, I’m able to select a song without paying. After a brief moment of consideration, I put on some Queen. Nothing like 80’s classics to pass the time. “We Will Rock You” filters through hidden speakers up near the ceiling, filling the room with the music and drowning out the beeps and other noises from the arcade. Satisfied, I meander back to the staff hallway and make my way down to the supply closet.

I think it’d be best to start in the arcade, since it’s the far part of the restaurant, and then work my way back to here. Grace should be along soon enough, but, just in case something unforeseen happens, like the oven blows up, it’s best to have a plan. I don’t count on Aisling being ready to join us anytime soon. She’s got a robot to find and tinkering to do. We’ll be lucky if we see her by the time we leave at 6:00 am. She might be creeped out by the automatons now, but, if we’re not careful, she’ll be naming them and taking one home before we know it. That’s just the way she is with machines. Her cellphone’s name is Pablo, her microwave is Fred, and her television Steve. I can’t even remember most of the others. She gets really creative sometimes. Like how her dad’s stereo was “La Marquis de Paris”. No idea why it was named that, but, that’s what she called it.

With a container of wipes perched on top of the industrial vacuum, I take off again down the hall, heading for the arcade. The vacuum’s a bit heavy but not too terribly so. It glides pretty nicely over both the carpet and hardwood. Queen is still thrumming through the speakers in that iconic beat, about midway through the song. I glance at the jukebox, already considering what song I’ll play next when I get the chance to choose another. My gaze is again caught, however, by the automatons.

I stop dead in the center of the room, staring at the stage. I _know_ this isn’t my imagination.

Every one of them is standing upright now, with their heads erect. _That_ was _not_ how they were standing before. I can practically feel the color rush from my face. Their eyes seem to be primarily shades of red and purple, from crimson to murky red brown and lavender to magenta. I stare at them, and they seem to stare back. Seriously. It feels like every single one of them is staring right back at me. Their expressions have changed too, different from the slack faces of sleep. The hoodlum in the bomber jacket seems to be smirking at me. The blonde bum looks mildly annoyed. Their expression range from there. From board to calculating to half-smirking to... what the hell, is that one _winking_ at me? I squint. Sure enough, the one in the little hat and brown uniform is winking and giving me a little smile like he’s about to step off his charging post and come chat me up.

That’s not the scariest part though. At least this I can reason out by saying that this must be how they start their performances. Like, once their batteries or whatever get to a certain capacity, they ‘wake up’ and these are their starting positions. They aren’t moving at all. Not even blinking. Just watching. I can suddenly hear the music from _Psycho_ under the Queen song.

It’s as I stare at them that I realize something even more terrifying than the seeming alertness of the automatons on stage. The one in pink is missing.

I was so caught up in the creepiness of it that I didn’t even notice before. The blonde, bowtie wearing automaton has disappeared.

“Hooooly shit.”

This has to be Aisling messing with us. She would do that. She just had to take him away to do repairs and thought it would be funny to leave the others like this.

Yeah. That’s gotta be it.

Mentally repeating this to myself like a mantra, I continue on my way, rolling my vacuum cleaner right into the entrance to the arcade hallway. On impulse, I glance back one more time, just in case.

Every single pair of eyes remains focused on me. With a small squeak, I rush into the arcade, not daring to look back again.

I _have_ to talk to Uncle Sean about those things.

 


	2. Grace: The Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first encounter with the automatons, as told from Grace's perspective.

I’m only five minutes into mixing the inordinate amount of cake my uncle has requested and my arms are covered in flour up to my elbows. I’m quite glad I brought my apron. I would definitely have flour in numerous other places if not for it. It’s a hideous shade of yellow, but, it does its job well enough, keeping the different elements from staining my clothes. I must say, I like our bowls at the bakery better, as they’re made for mixing. The wide, industrial metal bowls in the pizza kitchen are not. As soon as I flipped the switch and the beaters began to spin, flour went flying in a _poof_ of fine dust. I had thought it would, but, it was initially surprising. Still, it’s not so big of a hindrance that it’s slowing me down. I’m practiced enough to avoid making a mess of the countertops and surrounding kitchen with flying droplets. Fear of my mother’s wrath in my younger days of baking ensured that. Making a mess of her kitchen is something no one wants to do.

I turn off the mixer, satisfied with the state of the ingredients currently within the bowl. From outside the door, I can hear a Queen song playing. Vikki must have figured out how to work the jukebox. It’s nice of her to provide some background music while we work. She’s such a sweet girl. I wish she wasn’t so hard on herself. She doesn’t realize how wonderful she is. Or, she refuses to. I do feel bad leaving her alone to do the cleaning, what with Aisling being on some sort of Automaton run, but, these won’t take long. At least, I hope not. It’s lucky that Uncle Sean saw fit to include a regular oven in this massive kitchen setup of his. I doubt cakes would do well in that stone pizza oven. Humming along with the song, I add the next few ingredients, following a memorized recipe. I’d like to get these done soon and move on to other things. The oven preheats behind me, already producing a bit of warmth in the otherwise cold kitchen.

When Uncle Sean offered me a position here, I was ecstatic. I’ve been saving up from what I make at the bakery so that I can eventually attend culinary school, but, at my current rate I wouldn’t be able to go for a few years yet without taking out a loan. Which I would rather not do. The ridiculously high wage Uncle Sean offered with this position is exactly what I need to propel me along. Since I don’t have school, I can do this job year round. I did the math and, if everything works out, I’ll have enough in almost no time. I do enjoy working at the bakery, but, I would rather be a professional with a wide skillset. And baking gets a little old. There isn’t much to it. Decorating is fun, but, I want some more variety in my creations.

I hum along with the song as I pour my first batch of batter into a round pan. This particular pan is so large that it took up most of the space in my bag. I’d had the foresight to bring ingredients in earlier today so that I’d have room for other supplies tonight. A three-layered cake this big is a bit of a challenge and requires many different components, quite a few of them not of the edible type. The pans themselves were the biggest issue, simply due to their size. It’ll take another batch of batter to top off this pan and fill the next. Carefully, I scrape the bowl so that it’s as empty as possible.

I’m so caught up in my work that I don’t even hear the door open. Or the footsteps that must follow. I’ve never been terribly observant, but, one would think I would know when I’m no longer alone in a previously empty kitchen. It’s not even until I’ve reached for the next ingredient to start my process again that I notice him.

I freeze, like someone hit the pause buttons on my movements. To my right, on the other side of the counter, I see a large blot of purple. It takes me a moment to process this. I don’t recall anything that brilliantly purple in the kitchen before. Slowly, my gaze focuses and I realize it’s a purple vest. My expression unfreezes and I frown slightly. A pair of folded hands rest on the countertop, in front of the vest, well-trimmed nails and long fingers giving an impression of meticulousness. Then, my eyes trail upward as I realize that the hands and vest belong to a male figure. My gaze slides over the purple vest, up to a blue bowtie resting at the base of a pale throat. I feel my eyes widen. I recognize that bowtie. I just straightened it not fifteen minutes ago.

_Le Dia…_

Unwilling to look but unable not to, my blood like ice in my veins, my eyes snap to his face.

As soon as I see him fully, a small shriek leaves me before I can stop myself and I take a step back, all thoughts of my current task forgotten.

He smiles, lips stretching crookedly over white teeth, and actually giggles slightly. His freckles, sprinkled over his cheeks and nose, stand out against his pale skin. A mop of strawberry blonde hair hangs over his forehead and around his ears. The little details, his freckles, his hair color, the way his cheeks dimple with his smile, seem to stand out to me dramatically. Detachedly, I realize that I hadn’t noticed those things before. Just that he was a blondish male in brightly colored clothes. I know I’m staring, eyes wide. Another vague thought floats across my mind: he would be adorable if not for the madness lurking in his blue eyes.

Reality slams into me then.

_Good God…he’s one of the automatons!_

The automaton cocks his head, still smiling brightly.

“I’m terribly sorry, poppet. I didn’t mean to startle you!”

He talks. The automaton apologized to me. And he’s British. Why is he British?

“It’s alright…” I hear myself replying without even really meaning to do so, my voice airy and distant, “I was just caught up…baking…”

He glances down at my workstation. Despite his smile, his eyes are filled only with a cold curiosity. I shiver without meaning to.

His smile widens.

“Oh! I understand completely, love!” he reaches out and snags the container of cocoa powder, “Baking is one of my passions!”

I’m still in a state of shock. I’m speaking with the automaton. Maybe this is one of their functions? For guest interaction? With a preprogramed personality? They weren’t like that in the past, from what I remember, but, Uncle Sean could have updated them…My memories are very vague. I’m not sure that they even look the same as what I recall from my childhood. I don’t remember them being so scary. I’m more frightened than I’ve ever been before. This thing was supposed to be charging on stage, not wandering around. Do the others do that too?

The automaton looks back to me when I don’t respond. His smile fades just a bit.

“Poppet? Are you quite alright? You look a bit pale.”

Though his tone is concerned, there’s something like dark amusement in his expression. Just a hint of it, but, it’s there.

I shake myself. It must be that this is some weird interaction function. There’s no other explanation. Best to simply deal with it as well as I can.

“I’m fine,” I give him my own smile, the one that Vikki calls my ‘shot through the heart smile’, nervously wiping my hands on a nearby towel to give some semblance of cleanliness, “I just didn’t expect to see you off stage.”

His expression abruptly changes to surprise. He stares at me for a long moment, seeming to be attempting to process something. For a moment, I think I see something like awe on his face. Then, as suddenly as the surprise came, it’s gone, replaced by that odd, lopsided grin.

“Ah! Yes, well, once we’re charged up, we’re able to wander for a bit. And it’s been so long, I thought a good stretch might be in order.”

I eye him, a bit warily. So, the others can wander like him. Which means they probably are. I only hope that Aisling and Victoria don’t run into them and freak out.

“That makes sense…I can’t imagine being stuck on stage all the time is pleasant…” I murmur, glancing down at my workstation, “…Um, I’m Grace. Grace O’Leary.”

I feel a bit stupid, introducing myself to an automaton. My hand extends toward him almost of its own accord, shaking slightly. His blue eyes flicker down to it and surprise again registers on his face. My body is almost on autopilot, my mind feeling oddly detached from it. After a moment, he places the cocoa back on the counter and reaches out to grip my hand.

It’s a shock, the feeling of his skin. His hand is warm and soft and dry, like a real person. His slender fingers gently wrap around mine smoothly, without any of the jerking that might be expected from a machine. I glance up at his face again to find that he’s watching me, almost warily. When he catches my gaze, that smile of his returns, even bigger than before. He gives my hand a gentle squeeze, almost like he’s being very careful with me, as though I’m something delicate.

“Oliver Kirkland, dear,” next thing I know, he’s pulling my hand up and pressing his lips to my knuckles, his eyes still on my face, “It’s very nice to make your acquaintance.”

Color immediately blossoms across my face. I can feel the way my cheeks heat up in response to the feeling of his _very_ realistic lips on my skin. I’ve never been greeted in quite that way before. My boyfriend has kissed my cheeks, or pecked me on the lips, when greeting me. There’s something so… _refined_ about this, though. And the way his smoothly accented voice almost purrs out those odd little pet names….

Catching the smugness lurking under his sweet smile, I stiffen slightly. He knows. He sees what kind of effect he’s having. He might even have been going for this kind of response.

I stop myself. He’s an automaton. A robot. A very realistic robot, but a robot nonetheless. He’s been programmed to pour on the charm, that’s all. I give a small smile in return and gently extricate my hand from his.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Oliver.”

He seemed a bit put-out when I took my hand back, but, when I speak, he’s all sunshine and rainbows again. Now that my head’s cleared a bit from the original shock of seeing him, I find myself turning wary. Audience interaction function or no, I don’t like that he just wandered in here of his own accord and started speaking with me. And he’s one of the more pleasant-seeming ones from the stage. I can’t imagine how frightening it would be to run across one of the others. That very tall one, for example. Or the brutish one that had been on the end opposite the unkempt blonde man. That might be a bit unfair on my part, judging them on appearance. They might be perfectly civil, like Oliver. Something in the back of my mind tells me not to be taken in by his civility, though. He puts on a cute front, but there’s something lurking in those too-realistic eyes of his. Something not at all pleasant.

“Well, poppet, now that introductions are out of the way…”

Oliver’s voice pulls me from my darkening thoughts. To my surprise, and trepidation, he’s circling the island, coming to my side to join me. My heartrate seems to double in speed. With the counter between us, his presence was a bit diminished. Now, though, he’s with me, nothing between us. I find myself gripping the edge of the counter tightly, forcing myself not to back away as he comes to stand beside me. I have a feeling that fleeing would be a mistake, like it would cause that hint of madness in his eyes to escalate.

“How might I be of assistance?” he finishes, leaning against my side of the counter, just a few inches separating us.

I know that my surprise registers on my face. I hadn’t expected that. I’d been so caught up in his sudden appearance that I’d almost forgotten about the cake altogether. I’d also really thought that when he said baking was one of his passions, it was just something he was supposed to say to keep conversation going. It seems he really meant it, though. How deep does this programming go?

“Assistance in….baking?” I ask to clarify.

He hums an affirmative, seeming amused by my response. A bit self-conscious, I look down and brush off my horrid yellow apron a bit to give my hands something to do.

“Oh, um…” I turn my gaze on the assembled ingredients, “Well, I’m making a three-layered chocolate cake with vanilla frosting. Just something simple for the big opening tomorrow.”

Oliver shifts closer, seeming to take stock of what I have assembled. I peek up at him to find that he’s smiling again, this one much more genuine than the last. It’s a bit of a shock, really. Another thing that’s too-real for the automaton.

“Something simple, you say?” he muses, pushing his pink sleeves up over his elbows, “Shouldn’t take too long, then.”

I glance down at his pale arms and find that his freckles seem to be present there as well. I almost want to reach out and trace the skin there, to see if it’s as real as that of his hands. Such attention to detail on this automaton…

“Grace, love,” my eyes snap up to Oliver’s, “Why don’t you measure these,” he gestures towards the ingredients, “And let me work my magic here, hm?”

I blink rapidly, a bit taken aback. Work his magic?

“Um, alright…”

I nod and begin doing as he asked. I’m used to working with others in my mother’s bakery, so, it isn’t difficult to do as he so. As I measure, he takes what I give him and mixes it. He manages to do it without the obnoxious poof of flour that I got, keeping everything in the bowl and somehow looking as dapper as ever. I find myself watching him, wondering again just how deep that programming of his goes. He’s rather skilled at baking it seems. I can’t think of any reason an automaton would need to be able to bake, though. As we continue, with just a few comments and questions between us, I realize that he’s not just skilled, he really seems in his element. Like doing this centers him. There’s actually something like pure happiness in his expression.

I frown slightly. He’s so emotive. It shouldn’t be possible for him to be so human. I know very little about computers, but, I do know that this sort of artificial intelligence is too advanced for a mere performance automaton. Emotion, personality, situation adaptability, those things shouldn’t be within his capacity. He’s held a conversation with me, which should have been awkward due to pre-programmed responses, but, that wasn’t the case. Ever since he walked through the door, he’s been behaving as a normal person. If I hadn’t seen him on stage earlier, I wouldn’t have known he was an automaton. He could have been a random man who just wandered in and started up a conversation. This _must_ be surprisingly advanced artificial intelligence. There’s no other possible alternative. He isn’t alive. He’s a machine. A frighteningly adaptable machine.

I watch as he brings the batter to a perfect consistency and pours it into the pans I prepared for him. Sensing my eyes on him, Oliver glances over at me.

“Yes, poppet?” he asks.

Again, that dark amusement touches his voice. I feel the color in my cheeks flare again in response to having been caught staring. I look away quickly, scrambling for something to say. I couldn’t very well tell him what I’d been thinking.

“Sorry…you’re just very good at this…”

Bravo, Grace. That’s the kind of reply that would earn me a deadpan ‘really?’ look from Harry.

Oliver just chuckles.

“Lots of practice, love.”

That draws my attention back. He’s a stage performance robot. How could he have ‘lots of practice’?

He picks up the biggest pan easily and moves to the oven, pulling the door open and releasing a wave of heat. I follow with the other two, my arm shaking slightly with the strain of carrying the medium one with all of the batter inside. Oliver slides the first pan in and turns. Seeing me struggling he ‘tsk’s and takes the pan from me.

“No need to strain yourself, poppet. I could’ve gotten that.”

I give him a smile as he puts that pan in as well.

“It’s alright, Oliver. You’ve helped so much already and this was something I volunteered to do.”

He steps back, letting me add my smaller pan. Then, when I’m clear, he shuts the door.

“Nonsense. I offered my assistance, and my assistance I’ll give.”

He glances towards the clock on the wall. Following his eyes, I see that it’s now 12:35. That hadn’t taken long at all. I hope that Victoria’s done alright without me or Aisling. I glance at Oliver and realize she might have to hold out a while longer. I’m not sure how to get away from him now without being rude…

The automaton hums absently to himself, wandering back to the counter we’d been working on and going about cleaning up.

“So, poppet, tell me about yourself,” he says as he puts the ingredient containers back into my canvas bag.

I can tell from his tone that it’s a request, not a demand, but, it’s one that cuts off any thoughts of escape I had. Starting a conversation like that promises for a long interaction.

_Sorry, Vikki…_

I open my mouth to reply, to ask what he wants to know, already mentally running through some things to tell the increasingly strange robot, when I’m cut off. A scream, loud and frighteningly short, pierces the air. My eyes widen and I whip towards the door, moving before I even process what I heard. Aisling doesn’t scream. She’s never been a screamer, even when we were little. I suppose that, to someone who can’t hear well, a distress call doesn’t mean much. Which means it had to be Vikki. What’s happened? Vikki isn’t a big screamer either, which means that she’s truly terrified. The last time I heard her scream like that was when we were kids and her brother jumped at her after convincing her to watch a horror film with him.

A hand closes around my wrist with enough strength that I jerk and am stopped mid-step. I look back at Oliver, panic flooding me.

He isn’t smiling now. There isn’t a hint of that previous adorable playfulness in his expression. He looks quite serious. I tug at his grip, trying to pull away. His hand is like a manacle, unmoving. He isn’t holding me very tightly, but, I suppose that part of his being a robot means that he’s stronger than I am by far. Through the closed door, I can hear Vikki shouting.

_“Get the hell away!”_

My panic mounts. One of the other automatons, maybe more than one, is scaring her. That has to be it. I have the sudden horrible thought that not all of the automatons are as kind as Oliver, not all of them like to bake and chat. The previous owner _was_ found brutally murdered one night. What if it was one of these automatons? When that thought comes, I struggle more, pulling uselessly against him.

“Let go of me, Oliver!”

In response, the automaton yanks me closer. I feel fear for myself now. What if Oliver isn’t as kind as he’s been acting? What if he was just biding his time? Robot or not, what if he’s not so audience friendly as I thought?

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for pain.

It never comes. I collide gently with Oliver’s unyielding form. As soon as I’m close enough, his hand leaves my wrist and his arms wrap around me. It would be like a hug if not for the constrictiveness of it. This is meant to keep me from leaving, not to offer comfort. He’s only slightly taller resulting in a somewhat uncomfortable embrace where my chin is tilted up and pressed against his shoulder.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, poppet,” I tense further at the dark tone in his voice in my ear, “You see, the others aren’t as accepting as I am, and I don’t want you to get hurt. Not now that I finally have you…”

Surprise at his concern is overrun with another flash of fear. I don’t even have time to process the last part of what he said. I’m stuck on one word.

_Hurt?!_

All I can think is that Vikki is out there, with the possibility of being harmed by one of these frighteningly realistic robots.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this first chapter! This story took form in my mind after I read "Surviving The Night" by YamiBaki (please, do go read it, it's wonderful). I'm posting this at 10:30pm after doing my college Algebra homework, so, please forgive me for not commenting further. It is also due to the lateness that this has not been more than cursorily proofread. That said, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Feedback is most welcome.


End file.
